


Awakening

by Smaragaide



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Book 3: A Storm of Swords, Book 4: A Feast for Crows, Book 6: The Winds of Winter, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Love/Hate, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Canon, Smut, Spoilers for Book 3 - A Storm of Swords, Spoilers for Book 6 - The Winds of Winter, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smaragaide/pseuds/Smaragaide
Summary: This is my take on post "Winds of Winter" sample chapter "Alayne" by GRRM.I posted this a few days ago but after my laptop crashed, the whole story needed to be redone since it was lost on A03. Some of the first chapter is similar (for those who read it already) but I have made major changes because I didn't like it and want the story to go in a certain direction instead.Here's the sample "Alayne" chapter from The Winds of Winter (posted by GRRM on his site until it disappeared recently) in case you might want a refresher before diving into this story.https://www.scribd.com/document/261255789/Alayne-Winds-of-Winter-Sample-Chapter-by-George-RR-MartinI'm going to try and keep this as book/show canon as possible which means it will be primarily Sansa's POV, because what she sees/knows doesn't always mean she knows what Petyr is doing.
Relationships: Petyr Baelish & Sansa Stark, Petyr Baelish/Alayne Stone, Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 55





	1. An Unexpected Feeling

_The night belongs to you…_

That’s what Petyr said, and his promise rang true. Sansa danced all night. She flirted and teased Ser Harrold just enough. Her father’s words of instruction always in the back of her mind. She refused Harry her favour and for the last part of the evening, the boy wouldn’t relent until she revealed the knight’s name. Alayne was careful not to overplay the coquettish maiden with him. Pique his interest, keep it there but don’t seem desperate to hold his attention.

Myranda’s hearty laugh and bouncing bosom had many men clamouring to dance with her. Her rose velvet gown was made to accentuate her many assets. Many times she would wink at Alayne when she had a particular robust knight in her arms. A husband she wanted and Sansa thought it couldn't be that challenging for Myranda to get a proposal or at least a good ‘tumble’ as Harry crudely referenced his first mistress. The brunette was constantly preoccupied with what a man sported under his armour.

_“How little is his finger, I ask you?”_

Why the woman continued to ask was vexing. A daughter shouldn’t know such things about her father. Sansa had never seen her real father in such a state, let alone discuss it with another woman. The Lord Protector wasn’t her father, but Myranda couldn’t know such a thing. She couldn’t be serious about Lord Petyr. It was only because there were no other men remotely appealing at The Gates of the Moon unless a girl wanted an old man or a poor squire. Now the tourney would begin tomorrow and there were plenty of eligible gallants to catch her eye. The brunette changed her mind on a whim and by the way she was dancing with the men in the Great Hall tonight, Myranda could very well find herself a man suitable. Better that she chose a husband herself before her father did, Myranda said once before.

Only twice did Sansa catch Petyr’s watchful gaze. He was at ease in his drink and conversation with Lord Nestor. It wouldn’t be strange at all for her father to keep a wary eye on his beautiful daughter during a vibrant feast, especially with many a young man about her. His eyes were bright and smiled.

Tonight, he was smartly dressed in a doublet and tunic of silver and green with shining buttons down the front. If anything, Petyr was a man of elegance. He could be funny, tender and quite generous. Instead of one of Aunt Lysa’s altered frocks, Petyr gifted her a beautiful emerald dress with silver embroidery to match, the colours of House Baelish. He wanted his daughter to shine tonight.

_Charm him. Entrance him. Bewitch him._

Sansa’s sole duty tonight was to secure her betrothed’s attentions. It wasn’t a difficult task, the boy was handsome and somewhat pleasant when he attempted to be. Once Sansa would have been thrilled at the prospect of such a marriage proposal. However, Joffrey changed her forever and there was no going back to that naïve girl from Winterfell.

Joffrey, like Harry, was handsome too and charming and promised her a throne and all her childish dreams of becoming a princess in a great castle. She was such a stupid girl. If Sansa had half the wits of her sister, Arya, she would have seen right through the young prince. How did her father and mother not know? Was she only disposable, nothing more than a gift to an old friend to bind their houses? She had changed so much these past years for King’s Landing and the Lannisters had taught her much.

Only Petyr truly saw her, understood her and respected her growing intelligence. Everyone else gave the poor girl no notice. An empty-headed child, her Aunt Lysa said. Little dove, too naïve and innocent for Cersei to worry about. The only worth was her claim to Winterfell and the North as far as the Tyrell’s were concerned.

And then there was Petyr. Littlefinger had a game, she knew that well enough but what he chose to tell her and what plot was in his mind could be many things. In King’s Landing, she wouldn’t know to trust Littlefinger, but Lord Petyr was a different story. They were the same man. Like her, he wore a mask too in public. Did he reveal his true self only to her in private? Sansa just didn’t know yet.

He had less than a year to prove himself in the Vale. With Lysa dead and young Sweetrobin on death’s door, he couldn’t hope to hold power for long. That’s why this marriage was necessary. He had some plan for Harry but Sansa couldn’t quite figure it out yet. They would marry, she would secure her position with an heir and then the Vale would fight for her honour and reclaim her birthright. She would have the North and the Vale. The mere thought of that power was overwhelming, but it wouldn’t be her authority any longer. It would become Ser Harrold’s as her lord and master. All of it.

Then what would Petyr gain? No, he wasn’t leaving such a thing to chance. He did seem to care and had been protecting her all along. Petyr’s kisses and soft-spoken words of comfort were more than fatherly, but Sansa chose not to dwell on that. He spoke so often using ‘our plan’, ‘we’ and ‘us’. Sansa had only to hope that he knew what he was doing for she had no other true friend. Petyr knew everything and everyone. He wouldn’t give her to some man he had no knowledge of.

_Those are my gifts to you, sweet Sansa, Harry, the Vale and Winterfell._

Petyr described Harry the Heir as a man that would not only be fit her station, a worthy marriage, but handsome and brave… the kind of man that would certainly make a girl’s tummy flutter. Petyr knew what she was attracted to if the looks of Joffrey and Ser Loras were any example. And Harry _was_ handsome as Petyr promised, but Joffrey’s cruelty hardened her heart. Ser Harrold proved himself vain and cruel... and a handsome face no longer really mattered.

If Harry had met Sansa Stark and not Alayne, would he have treated her differently? The heir of Winterfell was quite the prize. He certainly never would have called her a bastard or treated so poorly. Now, she knew what it was like to be low-born and how it felt to be looked down upon and that knowledge, no matter how it hurt, was something to learn from. This is how Petyr must have felt his entire life.

He couldn’t have married Lysa without Joffrey’s grant of Harrenhal and title. Even then, the Lords Declarant despised him along with his regency over the Vale and Robert. He was forced to prove himself, buy friends with gold and keep his enemies at bay. It must be a tiring thing and it was no wonder Sansa found him in his solar at all hours of the night, always working. Now she had to work. Sansa thought it might be more difficult to sway the boy considering how much she disliked him and it wasn’t to pique his pride.

Sansa had managed to discreetly give her favour to Ser Targon, since he was one of the few knights she actually enjoyed speaking to. It would have been obvious if she made it known to Harry during the feast after he asked it and thus denied promptly. Sansa would be happy to see Ser Targon or any knight knock Harry from his horse.

_He needs a dent in his pride._

The night was winding down and she didn’t want to give too much attention to her future husband. Sansa glanced around and couldn’t see Petyr on the dias any longer. Another lord had taken his seat next to Lord Nestor and they were deep in their cups. Like her father, the Lord Protector had not asked her to dance once tonight. They had a plan and it was all about Harry. If so many knights had not asked for her hand on the dancefloor tonight, surely he would have kept his daughter from being a wallflower.

In a way, that kindness would have made her look worse to Ser Harrold and everyone else in the room. Who would dance with a bastard except for her own father? She couldn’t wait to tell him everything. Petyr would howl at the way she spoke to him. Sansa was rather impressed with how she handled Harry and drank more wine. Soon, it would be over, and she would have quite the tale for Petyr in his solar.

“Are you purposely trying to avoid me, my lady?” a chuckle sounded behind her and Sansa was glad it did not belong to a certain blonde.

“Oh no, not at all. I’ve become quite exhausted,” she smiled at Coldwater. One of the first knights she danced with tonight.

“Yes, I don’t think any lady has had as much attention as you,” he smiled.

Sansa blushed at that. Yes, it had been a long night. This was her first tourney as a maiden flowered. She was too young to enjoy men’s attention at feasts at Winterfell. Mother said she wasn’t old enough to dance at such events as she and Arya were sent to bed early.

“You’re too kind,” she gulped down her wine but not before spying Myranda’s rose dress. The girl was heavy in conversation with a man she could not see. Sansa was happy for her. Maybe she would find herself a husband after all.

Sansa could see Harry making his way towards her once again and sighed. Perhaps she could use Myranda as a welcome distraction as Alayne had in the yard today. She saved Myranda from those two knights and right now it was Sansa that needed the saving.

Myranda laughed and stepped back rooting Sansa to the spot. Lord Petyr was revealed and seemed to be very entertained as he finished his wine. Why was he talking to her? Sansa couldn’t remember once Lord Petyr speaking to Royce’s daughter. His eyes didn’t find Sansa in the crowd, he was completely absorbed in the brunette and Sansa’s stomach clenched a bit.

“One more dance, before the night is over,” Harry pulled her into his arms again without resistance. “I insist, my lady.”

Sansa couldn’t remember a word he said. That was dangerous for she was still playing an important role but couldn’t keep from looking in her father’s direction.

“Will you tell me who you have given your favour tomorrow?” Harry implored with a touch of irritation. “I must know the man I will best in your honour.”

“Ser Targon,” she muttered as he swung her around and Sansa glimpsed Myranda lean into Petyr’s ear. He smiled and laughed and Myranda touched his shoulder, then his hand…

_Charm him. Entrance him. Bewitch him._

“Is it Ser Targon your eyes search for?” Harry asked, gripping her tighter. She should be thrilled at his newfound jealousy, but it was the furthest thing from her mind.

Harry chuckled, catching her pointed stare, “If Littlefinger, I mean your father, is lucky, he’ll have a warm bed tonight. Lord Nestor tried desperately to wed her to me a few seasons back. Lady Anya wouldn’t have it. Too many men have sampled her wares, I’m betting.” Sansa didn’t want to listen to him. “Being Littlefinger’s daughter, has any man sampled yours?”

Harry leaned down to kiss her and Sansa immediately stepped back affronted. “Natural born or no, I am not those common girls you are used to. Rest well, Ser Harrold. You’ll need your energy for the joust on the morrow.”

Turning on her heel, Sansa headed straight towards her father but he was no longer there nor Myranda. Sansa’s chest was heavy and an annoying burn was in the pit of her stomach. Two other knights bowed and tried to have a dance, but she refused gracefully. The men would be so drunk they would barely able to mount a horse in the morning.

Coming to Lord Nestor’s side, her eyes scanned the multitude of faces. “My lord, have you seen my father?”

Not hearing his answer, she spied the folds of a rose dress disappearing around an entrance to the south tower’s pillared gallery. She knew to where the gallery led and couldn’t stop her feet as she wove through the dancing guests moved in a dream state.

There was a buzzing in her ears but the gallery was quiet. A squire had a servant girl in a hidden alcove and by the noises, Sansa didn’t have to imagine what they were doing. It was dark and fairly deserted, other than a few men who were singing garbled songs of battle with flagons of ale slopping on the marbled floor.

Small stairs led to the outer yard, and there was no reason to go outside for it was a cold night. Tentatively, she climbed the stairs to the upper gallery looking back to the Great Hall. Harrold hadn’t pursued her, and the feast was still going strong with the noise of revelry.

The tower stairs curled to the right and a faint light flickered from a sconce Sansa knew was near his apartments. Petyr’s solar was only steps away but a woman’s voice made Sansa freeze, safely hidden in darkness.

“It is only you and I here,” the woman’s voice purred. “No one else need know, if you wish everyone to believe you’re still in mourning. I don’t mind.”

“Lady Myranda,” Petyr spoke softly, “It would be best if you returned. Your family honour may come into question. Your father and I are on good terms.”

“My father is otherwise engaged at this moment but for once, you are not.”

Seduction dripped from Myranda’s lips and Sansa thought she should leave, worried she might be discovered eavesdropping on not just her friend, but her father as well. She couldn’t will her feet to move. Why was she still standing here?

“Plus, there is no better way than to fortify a _friendship_ ,” Myranda whispered and it was quiet for a time.

“A terrible nickname you were given,” Myranda groaned. “It couldn’t be farther than from the truth.”

Sansa shuddered at the image in her mind. Her cheeks flushed crimson and prickling sensation needled the back of her neck and ears. A night, not so long ago, Aunt Lysa wailed in pleasure for all to hear. Her ridiculousness annoyed Sansa but after hearing Myranda talk, Sansa couldn’t help but wonder what went on behind closed doors in hindsight. Sansa was always taught the marriage bed was for siring heirs – a woman’s duty, nothing more.

“You need a young wife to take care of your needs,” she whispered.

“So, wishing to be my wife, are you?” His voice was cool but there was an undertone Sansa couldn’t place.

“You’re a clever man,” Myranda hummed. “A powerful man to be reckoned with. Should such a man be so lonely?”

“Lonely, I am not,” he tempered. “I am a _busy_ man.”

“So much work gives a man no release.” Sansa could hear a rustling of clothing. “A man needs something else to fill if he is a man at all. Unless he prefers…”

“You pretend as if you know me.”

“Is a brothel-keeper turned Lord Protector so hard to read?” Myranda hummed. “Such a man would know about great pleasures….Or does a _daughter_ fill your heart so completely?” Sansa strained to hear for a moment and wondered if Petyr had left.

“Marry off your bastard,” she whispered. “Then you’ll be free for better things.”

A burning rage filled Sansa’s stomach. Is that what Myranda really thought? She waxed on how Alayne had stolen her Harry, that he was meant for her. Now she had her sights set for her father… _her Petyr?_

“Are you so afraid of a little kiss, my lord?”

Sansa couldn’t listen to one more word and carefully descended without a sound. She didn’t know where this feeling came from walking back towards the Great Hall. Her heart was heavy as stone and a fire brewed in her belly. She could feel her skin was flushed in the cool air of the gallery and touched her face. Those fingers were wet and her eyes swollen. Silent tears had come and she didn’t know why.

Betrayal, that’s what this was. Myranda was not her friend. Petyr told her to be careful around the girl and she didn’t listen.

_And now he is upstairs with the same girl… You should be telling him all about Harry tonight and he has no time for you. You just assumed he would be in his solar alone, didn’t you? He left you downstairs... He left with her._

Who was Petyr to her? A father? A mentor? She met Littlefinger what felt a lifetime ago and now…

Petyr wasn’t hers. That’s something Aunt Lysa would say, _did say._ Sansa was spirited back, feeling Lysa’s rage, her hands pushing her niece to the edge of the Moon Door. All because of a little kiss in a snow castle. A kiss she didn’t want. It was Sansa Petyr came for, not Lysa. He saved _her, killed for her_. Everything she knew was wrapped up in him. If he left Sansa to her own devices now, she would die. She needed him.

The merriment was ongoing and Sansa froze at the entrance of the feast. She couldn’t go in there. Everyone would see right through her. She grabbed a goblet of wine and slurped it down greedily. She couldn’t go to bed, her apartments were near Petyr’s solar.

Time stood still as she watched everyone having a wondrous night. The tears dried and the alcohol was numbing her mind when bile crested with a sour taste of the wine she just drank.

“There you are, Alayne! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” The brunette bounded to her side.

Sansa couldn’t mouth a single word. She wanted to slap the girl, scream and yell at her betrayal but remained quiet.

“Tell me about Harrold,” she began. Sansa noticed Myranda’s bodice was completely out of sorts and it made her blood boil.

_That was more than a little kiss._

“He’s a cad,” she replied honestly.

Myranda caught her stare at her bosom and giggled. “Oh! I’m glad I found you first. If my father had seen…” She adjusted her clothing confirming Sansa’s fears and her eyes were threatening to well up.

 _Don't you dare_ , she chastised herself. _You will not shed one tear._

“Did you find yourself a husband?” Sansa couldn’t stop herself, her throat constricting. 

“Perhaps,” the girl huffed in satisfaction. “One I might not have expected to be so… um, wealthier at least.”

“Clearly, not Ser Lyn,” Sansa japed insincerely. This was a perilous direction, but she had to know. Would Myranda lie?

“Maybe not brawny and big, but not little,” she sighed. “If his kiss is any promise…”

This time Sansa didn’t blush. Her eyes were dry and raw, her face stone pale. Normally, Alayne would be giddy to ask which knight had Myranda so a flutter, but she did not want to hear one more word. Would Myranda tell her if she asked? Her eyes spied Ser Harrold across the room. Should she go to him, anything to get away from here.

“My, my, whatever did he say now?” Myranda misinterpreted the girl before her. “I can’t say I didn’t warn you about Harry. Well, maybe you’ll be lucky and not have to wed him after all.”

“He’s all yours if you still want him,” Sansa said calmly. Let her believe what she wants.

“Actually, I think he’s better suited to you. Harry is too much effort and with too many bastards,” she smiled. “I want a husband, a bit older and richer…one not seeking a new bed all the time. With me, he won’t be.”

Sansa desperately wanted to ask – Have you seen my father? I’m looking for him. She held her tongue. Myranda couldn’t know Sansa heard it all. Sansa knew her eyes would tell everything to the girl.

“I’ve had too much wine and don’t feel well at all,” Sansa complained, and It was the truth. “I think I’ll be off to bed.”

Myranda patted her back with a smile that wasn’t genuine at all. “Will you forgive me if I rejoin the feast. I wish to speak to my father before turning in. Surely you can make it to bed on your own without a squire escorting you to his,” she giggled and leapt right back into the feast as if she had never left.

Turning around, Sansa was almost scared to see Petyr but the gallery was empty. He must be in his solar. He’s probably waiting for me, she sighed. He’ll want to know about Harry…

Sansa climbed the stairs once more and when she peered around the corner, the corridor was dark and his solar door was thankfully closed. _Please let him be asleep or anywhere but here_ , she prayed as she crept past his door quietly. A few more steps and she would be safe inside her chambers.

“Alayne?”

_No, please. Not now. Don’t make me speak to you now._

Petyr’s candle highlighted the side of his face in the darkness. He looked much younger, she noticed in the pale light. She couldn’t speak and looked at Petyr’s chest, avoiding his gaze. He was quite comely in his silver tunic tonight.

Sansa half expected him to jape that she was forgetting to come to him tonight. Instead, he read her like a book. “What has happened?” Her chest hurt, an ache that just would not leave. Why couldn’t he just let her go to bed?

His voice was full of concern as he examined her face. His affection was fierce but when she shrank from his touch, a newfound horror filled his eyes. Glancing around the empty corridor, he suddenly pulled into his solar, locking the door.

 _I won’t be able to lie to him,_ her mind raced as he looked her over for some violation. Hours ago, Sansa couldn’t wait to sit in this room and tell Petyr everything about Ser Harrold. Her stomach lurched and all of tonight’s wine threatened to come up.

“Look at me,” he implored, worry written on his face as he tilted her chin up. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. I’m very tired and want to go to bed.”

Why was she so angry? For some reason, Sansa wanted to throttle him more than anything. He wasn’t allowed to worry about her, to care… he wasn’t her father!

“Don’t lie to me, sweetling.” His voice dropped as he studied her. “Tell me what happened.”

_You were too busy with Myranda Royce, why should I tell you anything?_

Petyr wasn’t hers. She didn’t want him like that, did she? No, she was supposed to want young gallant knights, handsome and bearing gifts and flowers. She was supposed to want Harrold. What did it matter, she was going to be wed to that dreadful boy anyway?

“I did just as you instructed, Father.” She couldn’t look him in the eyes even though Sansa was able to control her voice for a moment. Tell him what he wants to know and leave it at that. “I have charmed Ser Harrold. He asked for my favour and I refused.”

“You’ve been crying.”

It wasn’t a question and she couldn’t hide it; her eyes were swollen and tender.

“I told you he was dreadful, and that hasn’t changed but I did my duty tonight. Just as you wanted.”

Sansa expected him to argue to some degree but instead, he tilted her face up again, reading her eyes. He was looking for the truth and Sansa honestly didn’t know what it was, what she was thinking or feeling. This was all so new, these emotions. What did they mean?

“Did he try to take advantage of you?” he voice strained, and Sansa could detect the anger there.

_I’ll bet Myranda will lift her skirts for you if you ask if she hasn’t already._

Sansa finally scanned his face, avoiding his eyes. Did he enjoy kissing Myranda? Did he do anything else with her? Would he tell Sansa if she asked? Gods, she would never be able to work up the nerve to ask such a question. He didn’t have to explain anything to her, _his daughter_.

Myranda didn’t need marriage to bed a man. She told Alayne about Marillion and he was just a singer. Petyr was Lord Protector, someone important, someone worth marrying. Would she try and bed him too? Why did she care all of a sudden? She didn’t care when he married Aunt Lysa.

“No,” she finally answered with a stone face. “I will allow him nothing until our marriage day.”

Suddenly a decision was made at that moment.

_I’ll show you. I’ll make Harry love me. I’ll prove it. If Harry wants me, he’ll have to wed me. I won’t let any man have his way, like Myranda. That’s what you want, isn’t it?_

“May I have my leave, _Father_? I’ve had too much wine.”

He sighed and about to kiss her forehead but at the last moment refrained. Sansa didn’t refuse him or step back. There was something in his eyes she could not read. Was that a sign Petyr didn’t want to kiss her anymore? He had found someone else, someone who wanted his kisses and wasn’t afraid to give them?

“Good night.”

Just ‘good night’. Not sweetling, sweet, my dear… not even Alayne or Sansa. She had always expected his kisses and this time was no different. Only he chose not to.

Sansa bolted her door and her chest had a pain she never felt before. No handmaiden tonight and Sansa was forever grateful to be completely alone. Lying in bed, a defiant tear rolled down her cheek. Tonight was supposed to be about Harry, to make him fall in love with her. All she could think about was Petyr.

Since Kings Landing, they had their own little world. Except for Aunt Lysa. Petyr never looked at another woman. His kisses, compliments and praises were all for her. He made her feel beautiful, clever and powerful. No man, not even her real father made her feel like that. So many times her tummy would flutter or blush at Petyr's compliments. He had kissed her many times but only twice had he shown a real passion, kissed like a lover and not some little girl, a dutiful daughter. At the time, it was shocking and Sansa didn’t know how to feel about it. Now, everything had changed. She was a girl, no longer. She couldn’t view the world as a little naïve girl. Petyr wasn’t just her saviour and father-figure, he was also a man. A man that was desired by another woman.

All the questions made her head hurt. She was supposed to marry Harry. How could she want Petyr? Did she want him? Myranda could very well take him away from her. Her mind spun wild and sleep came with hardship. Sansa wished in the morning, that the wine would erase all from her memory.


	2. Kisses

Sansa broke her fast early with Sweetrobin before other lords and ladies had come down. The tourney would begin shortly and she needed her wits about her. Gratefully, Petyr had not come and sometimes took to dining in his solar. Sansa prayed he would let her be for now. He would have his hands full with the tourney today.

She had a plan. She would purposefully speak to Ser Targon and make sure Harry witnessed it. Whether Harry proved himself a capable knight or not would be an interesting sight. Would he attack broadly or use trickery like Ser Loras? Being the heir to the Vale, Sansa knew it would be best for him to finish strongly, set himself above other established knights. He would need to prove himself if Harry were to become the young falcon and Defender of the Vale.

As far as Myranda was concerned, Alayne would need to be on her best behaviour and watch her tongue. Her supposed friend believed Lord Petyr’s daughter to be an empty-headed fool. For now, that would do. Sadly, Randa had played her as just that, a fool. Now, Sansa needed to know what game the brunette really played and stood to benefit. Sansa felt transported back to King’s Landing when she had no one, not one friend.

Young Robert had demanded that Alayne sit with him for the joust. The maester had given the boy a healthy dose to keep him from shaking but he refused to sit with anyone else. Sansa was glad of it. That meant the seats were limited under the canopy meant for the higher lords and ladies. She would be seen but hopefully, less disturbed by unwelcome visitors.

Myranda Royce was forced to sit lower down and Alayne gave the girl a simple shrug. Myranda couldn’t stand Sweetrobin but she tried to appear unaffected with Sansa knew the girl was irritated to sit without her friend to gossip with. Would she finally tell Alayne what ‘knight’ her tryst had been with? That would be an awkward conversation.

_“I kissed your father thoroughly last night… I told you I would be your new mother… how would you like a younger brother or sister next year?”_

The joust was unlike any other. Vale knights seemed to have no fear as they tilted. At King’s Landing it was more for a show, even though still dangerous. Here, these men were attempting to one-up each other every time. It was exciting and made Sansa forget the rest of the world for a while.

Ser Targon trotted by and saluted Lord Robert and Alayne, displaying her favour, the one she had embroidered herself with ivy and birds. He smiled brilliantly and Sansa knew Ser Harrold was watching. He wasn’t jousting Ser Targon in this set and observed as other knights did to their opponents’ weaknesses and strengths.

It was Ser Roland Waynwood and everyone watched curiously. He was known to be worth adversary compared to his uncle. Lady Waynwood was a few seats away and she wrung her hands as only a grandmother would. Such tournaments could be deadly as Sansa very well knew from King’s Landing. Petyr sat next to her that day and began his tutoring in such a way she would never forget. Even then she learned from him and did not know it.

Unlike Harry, the Waynwood men were kind gentlemen and Sansa felt terrible for whoever the loser might be for she thought kindly on Ser Targon too.

_He must win, my victor. He must be worthy a choice and tilt against Ser Harrold._

Ser Roland was struck the first go and it was a hard blow from the lance. Young Robert seemed to enjoy the joust and shouted every now and again for the knight he favoured. He didn’t seem to care for the Waynwoods and rooted for Ser Targon.

On the second, Ser Targon was struck so heavily his helm flew off and Sansa stood, knowing her every move was noted. Shaking the splinters from his hair, Targon only grinned and pulled Alayne’s favour and kissed it. His helm was dented and unwearable but the gallant did not relent.

“My armour, my lady,” he smiled and Sansa was aghast. The man wouldn’t…it would be suicide.

His squire attempted to hand him two different helms and the man swatted them away.

Ser Harrold stood by the wood rail and bowed to her. “My lady, it looks as though I will win your favour by default,” he laughed. “I hope you won’t mind it soiled when returned to you.”

Sansa scowled at Harry and sat defiantly. Ser Roland might just take Ser Targon's head off if he was stupid enough to continue. Where was Petyr when she needed him? She did not want to hold Robert’s clammy hand. Sansa noticed Myranda was near Ser Harrold and they conversed for a brief moment.

Myranda said Lady Anya found her unsuitable or her dowry was too small to marry Harry. Petyr mentioned that Alayne’s dowry was much grander and harder to turn down. Harry didn’t seem to like Myranda they way he promiscuously spoke of her. Yet he had two bastards himself. It seemed rather unfair. Harry glanced Alayne's way a few times during the exchange – did he think she would be jealous?

 _He’s all yours if you still want him_ , she told Myranda last night. The girl flirted and laughed with the young man and maybe Sansa was reading too much into it. If Randa could have Harry, would she leave Petyr be? 

_No, you need to marry Harry. It’s the only way to get Winterfell back. The knights of the Vale will not fight for you, even if you’re Sansa Stark. You must be the next Lady of the Vale for that._

To everyone’s shock, Ser Targon turned his horse and charged at the young Waynwood and Sansa held her breath. Wincing at the crash, Sansa finally looked, and Ser Roland lay flat on his back and the cheers for Targon erupted. He dismounted and checked on Roland, finding the only bruising was to the young lord’s pride.

Her victor made his way to stands and bowed low to Lord Robert and then grinned madly at Alayne. He took her favour from around his neck and held it out, unmarked if not by a bit of sweat. Alayne made her way down and took it, but not before giving her knight a kiss on the cheek.

“Lady Alayne’s good fortune matches her beauty,” he yelled. “I would wear your favour in the heat of battle for such protection.”

The look she gave Harry was of pure satisfaction that he lost and that his pride seemed more injured than that of young Roland.

“Well struck, ser!” she smiled and didn’t mean Roland.

Sansa returned to her seat to find Petyr had made himself comfortable next to her. Her smile faltered for half a moment and her tummy had a small flutter. The little hairs stood when he leaned in and breathed in her ear. “Well played, sweetling. I couldn’t be prouder had I thought of it myself.”

His hand rested on the small of her back, a gesture no one else would give a second thought to, but it made her breath shallow. For the remainder of the joust, his hand was at her back or rested behind her. Petyr would lean across her to speak to Sweetrobin and he was so close that she could smell the sandalwood on him. Sansa couldn’t remember anything else about that afternoon’s events.

Petyr leaned in again, while the rest of the crowd cheered the next pair of knights. “Are you alright? You struck fear in me last night. I would have the head of any man who dares take liberties with you.”

Her corset was too tight, that must be it. It was the excitement of the tourney. She glanced briefly at Harry who was watching them intently.

“Yes, Father. I’m fine.”

Petyr followed her eyes and gave Harry a slight bow of his head in acknowledgement.

“That is a look of a man with a purpose. He will have to joust Targon Halfwild on the morrow. I’ll make sure of it. Be certain to dance with Targon first tonight, then Ser Roland and then Byron. He’s a handsome fellow. Make Harry wait for you. Be merry and smile at the other gallants.”

Quickly, Petyr was back to his usual scheming self. _Who will you be with tonight while I’m hard at work?_

“Won’t my lord father dance with me tonight?”

It came out before she knew what she said and Petyr tried to quell his surprise at her request.

“Surely, you will have a queue of men waiting for your hand this night…and your favour,” he smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes.

That took the wind from her sails and her change of mood did not go unnoticed.

“Do I sense disappointment? My daughter flatters me. Why would you wish to dance with me when you have knights of the Vale at your feet?” he japed but Sansa was not amused. He might as well tell her to bed Ser Harrold tonight and be done with it.

“I rather thought it would be nice not to be on guard for at least one dance, pretending polite conversation….having my toes stepped on,” she played offhandedly.

“So certain I would be a good partner? Harry will not be jealous of me,” he chuckled.

_You were a perfectly good dancer at your own wedding, I recall._

“Does everything have to be about him? Every waking moment?” she whispered harshly. “You are my only friend here.” They will think nothing of my lord father having one dance. It was as though she asked him to walk over hot embers than one, stupid dance. “I felt quite alone last night.”

That silenced him and he stared at her for the longest time. She kept her gaze straight ahead but Petyr’s eyes were studying her. Soft lips pressed against her temple but did not linger.

“My apologies for that, sweetling,” he murmured and took his hand away from her back. “I had more pressing matters needing attention in my solar than getting drunk with Lord Nestor. You seemed to be in control of the situation. I thought it better to not have your suitor think your father scrutinized his every move.”

That hurt and she refused to let him know it. _Oh yes, you had better things to do._

“I’ll endeavour to do better next time if you need saving,” he meant kindly, but Sansa wanted to shove him away.

Thankfully, two of Petyr’s hedge knights begged a word with him having her father excuse himself from the melee. Sword on foot matches were not nearly as exciting as the joust. Ser Lyn Corbray lived up to his practice yesterday and demolished his opponents.

Myranda walked with Alayne back to the Maiden’s Tower full of gossip and irritation that they could not sit together at the joust. Sansa pretended to listen and smile and only answered when necessary. Petyr had not come into conversation and Sansa did not to ask about Myranda’s gallant.

“You’re not still upset about Harry, are you?” she finally asked and Sansa knew she was not her usual self and needed to act more cheerful. “I think you’ve done something right Alayne. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you at the joust.” Alayne flustered a bit. "Oh well, you should ignore him and dance with every other knight tonight. Ser Targon surely is taken with you. I was surprised you gave him your favour. I thought it would be Harry or Ser Byron at least. I gave mine to Ser Roland, what good it did him...”

Everyone broke to rest and prepare for tonight’s feast and Sansa led poor Robert back to the tower so he might lay down and take for milk of the poppy before supper. Servants were placing fresh rushes and readying for the feast. With the many knights that came to the tourney, the matches would continue into the next few days. They didn’t travel all this way for one feast.

They passed Petyr with Lord Nestor and Lady Waynwood discussing the tourney.

“Father, Lady Anya,” Myranda curtsied and paused slightly with a bright smile. “My lord…”

It was directed at Petyr and Sansa’s chest burned. Only Sansa and Lord Nestor seemed to notice Myranda’s subtle nod to the widower. Lady Anya and Petyr appeared immune and nodded in acknowledgement.

“I hope Ser Roland has not suffered serious injury,” Alayne suddenly interjected.

Sansa caught Petyr’s eyes and they smiled. Yes, be the lovely and courteous girl Lady Anya would want for her ward. Petyr said she wouldn’t force Harry into marriage, but the sweeter Alayne was, the more Lady Anya would approve.

“Ah, to be young and robust,” Petyr chuckled.

“You act as if you are too old, my lord,” Myranda smiled sweetly and this time Lord Nestor did notice as did Petyr.

“I have never been accomplished with a sword let alone a lance, my lady,” he smiled but it did not reach his eyes and Sansa watched him intently with Lord Royce standing there.

“Some men have more worthy accomplishments to a lady than a sword in hand,” she spoke softly before taking Alayne’s hand retreating up the gallery stairs.

It was almost as if Lysa had spoken _. He may not look as tall or strong as some, but he is worth more than all of them._

Myranda had made her interest known and in front of her own father no less. Either it was an incredibly bold move or a stupid one. Lord Royce would want a natural Vale lord for his daughter’s next husband, surely. Petyr’s lessons came back in a whirl in how he swayed and paid Lord Nestor to be on his side against the Lords Declarant not too long ago.

 _There is no better way than to fortify a friendship_. Myranda’s seductive words rang in Sansa’s head and it reminded her of something Petyr said on their escape from King’s Landing when she learned of Olenna Tyrell’s participation in Joffrey’s murder.

 _Nothing like a thoughtful gift to make a new friendship grow strong,_ Littlefinger offered.

Did Petyr have plans to strengthen his alliance with Royce? Sansa didn’t think he needed it but it wouldn’t be any different than her marrying Harry for the power of the Vale. It hadn’t bothered her when he married Aunt Lysa, Sansa didn’t know him well. Now, however, she did not like it one bit.

Littlefinger wasn’t an idiot. He knew to distrust the Royces, especially Bronze Yohn. Lord Nestor was easier to control and lie to, but wedding and bedding his daughter… that could solidify him as an ally against the other Vale lords. Lord Nestor had already proved himself so far, but Petyr didn’t tell Sansa everything. He had plans within plans.

Petyr said Bronze Yohn Royce would protest the marriage contract had her dowry not been excessive but even then because it was with Petyr. He formed the Lords Declarant to remove Petyr from power and take Robert away. Maybe it was a way to force Petyr’s loyalty to allow the marriage of his bastard to Harry the Heir. They had no idea she was really Sansa Stark. She wondered if that would change anything at all or make matters more difficult. Sansa’s only worth, it appeared, was her claim to Winterfell. Joffrey, Willis Tyrell, Tyrion and now Ser Harrold…

_No one will ever marry me for love. Even if I was only Alayne, Harry only wants to claim me because I deny him._

Sansa Stark could bear him an heir, but he had shown his true colours last night. Two mistresses, both with bastards and now he was ready to bed the Lord Protectors daughter if she allowed him. Sansa would be another Lysa, bearing children to a man she detested. It wasn’t fair.

She was seated at the same spot tonight during the feast and she tried desperately not to fidget. Myranda had been seated between Lord Nestor and Petyr. If Royce didn’t have the idea before today, pushing Myranda on Petyr for wife seemed to agree with him, and probably without having to delve out a dowry in exchange.

Not once did Petyr look at Alayne or her general direction. He was hard to read when his mask was on. He was attentive and responsive to Myranda during dinner. As Lord Protector, but low-born to the rest of the lords and ladies present, it would be out of place for him to appear rude. Sansa could still hear them from last night and wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

Just as the prior evening, Alayne danced and danced. There was hardly a chance to catch her breath. After the joust, it seemed every knight was asking for her favour. Sansa danced with Ser Targon, Roland and Byron as her father suggested. When it looked like Harry was going to ask, another would take her hand. Each time she glanced at the blonde, he was frowning. He had danced with other ladies but it was for Alayne’s benefit. He was trying to play the same game but Sansa was far from jealous… not jealous of him at least.

Myranda had pulled Petyr into one dance and Sansa couldn’t stand it. He wouldn’t dance with his own daughter but he would for Royce’s girl. Myranda didn’t bother with other gallants and stayed seated near him. She had found her rich husband-to-be and clearly she wasn’t disappointed in what was under his doublet.

Harry finally had his chance, and this time he was the soul of courtesy. He had learned from his mistakes it seemed. Now she had to be on her guard for he asked questions about her. Alayne’s well-rehearsed heritage spilt from her lips with ease.

“I for one am very glad you chose not to take your vows,” he smiled. It was a handsome smile, lips that were full and white, straight teeth. “Moreso that your father brought you here.”

“That is kind of you to say,” she replied and kept her focus on him only.

“It would a kindness to have your favour on the morrow,” Harry smiled and swung her around. “Please tell me you haven’t given to Targon again. I’ll be no match against your magic if I face him in the joust.”

“Are you calling me a witch?” Alayne japed.

“You have bewitched me, that I know.” Sansa refrained from rolling her eyes. If this was the kind of flattery she’d have to endure… She had grown to accustomed to Petyr’s lovely compliments that made her blush. Not once did Harry praise anything except her beauty. Once that would have been enough to make her tummy flutter, but no longer. She was more than a pretty face.

“Are you saying you cannot beat him without me?” she cooed.

“I shall unhorse him on the first match,” he grinned. “I see I must prove myself to you.”

“Ser Targon has been nothing but gracious and kind to me since the first meeting. You have much to overcome,” Alayne smiled thinly. Targon also unhorsed Ser Roland with no helm.

“I do owe you an apology for last night…”

“And today at the joust?”

“That too.” Harry held her closer. “I fear there is something different with you. I’ve never been jealous of another man in my life.”

 _I’m willing to bet that is the truth_. Harry was an arrogant one, not unlike Joffrey, but was he as cruel? She wasn’t going to let him off so easy.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Alayne laughed.

“Have I not given you many compliments just now?”

“On my beauty? Every knight and squire have told me so tonight. A lady would hope a man finds something else admirable other than her eyes, lips and hair,” she shrugged as the music ended.

Harry’s eyes widened as she gave him an opening. “I’d like very much to know what is going on in that clever mind of yours. I’ve never met a woman like you before.”

_A good start. Too bad I had to prompt you for such words._

“I’m proud my daughter has inherited _something_ from me. Thankfully, she has the look of her mother,” a familiar voice sounded, and Sansa became anxious. “Harrold, if you please, I promised my daughter a dance tonight.”

Petyr was still Lord Protector and Harry backed away with a slight bow. “Will you save your last for me, my lady?”

Alayne smiled and nodded before Petyr stepped between them awaiting the music to begin. She had never been so nervous, it was only her father for heaven’s sake. Not even halfway through the song, Petyr was the best partner she had ever had. He swung her around and Sansa thought, if they had not been father and daughter, they might look the striking couple amongst the other dancers.

“It is going well?”

“Yes,” she replied. Petyr pulled her a bit closer but not to raise suspicions to their relationship. He smelled of wine and mint mixed with sandalwood, a scent purely him.

Sansa glimpsed Myranda and she didn’t look angry but bored. She only had one dance with him and it wasn’t nearly as nice as this. It might have been the song or the dance itself where the man and woman were closer together. Maybe it was because they knew each other so well. Myranda was a larger girl and yet Sansa’s slender figure fit Petyr’s perfectly.

“I keep my promises, sweetling,” he hummed in her ear and it made Sansa’s tummy flutter madly. 

“And I’ll keep mine,” she thought not realizing she had said it aloud.

“Is he simply puerile and rude or is there something else?” Petyr inquired gently. “You would tell me if he’s been _improper_ with you.”

“It’s as we discussed before. Nothing has changed except his pride is stinging.”

“No doubt your refusal and Ser Targon’s performance today singed him in a way he’s never felt before. It will be interesting to see their match tomorrow. We’ll see if our young falcon can soar,” he grinned.

Petyr was enjoying this but Sansa found none. She had to seduce Harry, she had to make him fall for her, to marry her…

“You don’t care for him at all, do you?” he whispered. “I thought he would please you.”

“No one has ever asked me what I want.” She couldn’t hide the hurt in her voice. 

_You thought his looks would please me because I’m an empty-headed girl. I’m not marrying him because I want to._ _I want Winterfell back too, but it feels like a high price to pay._

“What do you want, sweetling?” His voice was low and tender.

 _I don’t know_ , she wanted tell him. _I don’t want to marry Harry. I don’t want Myranda to marry you._ Sansa couldn’t ask herself the question that was really plaguing her.

“If there was a better way to return your home to you, I would do it,” he breathed against her ear. “We can’t take it back without the Vale.”

“I know,” she said dully. Petyr said _‘we’_ again. Was he really doing this for her?

“Come to me tonight,” he kissed her forehead when the dance ended, and her stomach fluttered again. “We’ll discuss it with more privacy.”

Just like that, Petyr left her on the floor but did not return to his seat. He bid Myranda and Lord Nestor goodnight and Sansa watched him retreat back in the direction of his solar. Myranda stayed seated and was in deep conversation with her father. She caught Alayne’s eye and gestured for her to come sit.

Sansa couldn’t refuse without suspicion arising and made her way to the dias to sit next to her friend.

“You have been busy all night, haven’t you?” the girl giggled and Alayne faked a bashful smile.

 _So have you_ , Sansa groaned inwardly. How should she approach this?

“You haven’t danced much tonight. Did you find a knight of your heart already?” Alayne smiled.

“Oh, better than a knight. I think a lord will do nicely,” the girl laughed at Alayne’s innocence.

“Who?” she pretended excitement for her friend.

“My father didn’t seat me next Lord Petyr for nought,” she studied Alayne and Sansa knew she must be wary.

How should Alayne respond - surprised, dismayed, simple-minded? Myranda smiled and observed her carefully.

“That doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“Oh no. I was only sure you wanted a brawny knight,” Alayne laughed. “Father isn’t _that_.”

“Well, a knight is good and well to bed, but a lord will keep me in comfort. Besides, he’s a good age and not bad in the face. Not a silly boy nor not too old like my last husband. I’m sure he’ll be more than pleasing in my bed.” Sansa’s chest burned and tried to stamp it down. “Incidentally, Lord Petyr is rather wealthy, isn’t he? I know my father did not have the funds to give such grand feasts.”

Myranda was very observant as Lady Waynwood. They all knew Lord Littlefinger was Master of Coin for a reason and that it was by his gold this tourney was made possible.

“I suppose,” Alayne muttered.

“To hear me talk about your father that way,” Myranda giggled. “He is still just a man. When you’re wed, he’ll be all alone. I could give you a new brother or sister, wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

Alayne smiled brightly and nodded even though her insides were crawling and scraping to get out.

“Excuse me, Randa,” Harry interrupted. “Lady Alayne is mine for the last dance.”

Sansa had never been so obliged to be in Harry’s arms. Thankfully, he talked about the tourney and the knights he would best and Alayne listened attentively and did everything Petyr told her to. Guests were drunk and lying about, others began to disperse for the night.

“May I walk you, my lady?” Harry took her arm and guided her back to the Maiden’s Tower. He must know her father’s apartments were close by and dare not take advantage.

Sansa wished Petyr’s solar door was open, but it was not as they passed, making her feel less secure.

“This time,” Harry purred, taking her hands in his. “May I wear your favour for the remainder of the tourney? You would honour me greatly.”

He was really pouring it on thick and Sansa knew Alayne had to give him something or he would lose interest. The point was to keep him, to make him want to marry her.

Alayne pretended to mull it around but not be too coy. She had shown him she was clever and acting the girlish fool did not serve her.

“It needs to be washed for it still has Targon on it,” she chuckled and Harry flashed her a grin that would normally make her giddy inside.

Harry drew her close and kissed both hands. She knew what was coming. He was so very handsome and the idea of him wanting to kiss her should have filled Sansa with excitement. Her kiss with Joffrey was lacklustre but she was still a child. She didn’t want to think of Tyrion. The Hound had stolen a kiss forcefully and yet so had Petyr. But Petyr had been gentle and tender and lately, he usually asked for a kiss first.

It was a kiss in the snow her mind wandered to when Harry took her lips. Harry’s breath smelled like ale, not mint. Petyr’s lips were soft and warm and Harry’s were rough. She could feel herself tense before a man cleared his throat. Sansa was reminded of Marillion when Ser Lothor came to her rescue. It had been Petyr’s wedding night but her safety was still in his mind.

Her lord father stood in the light of his solar doorway with his arms crossed. His doublet was open and the silver tunic hung loosely. Immediately, Harry stepped back releasing her.

“Ser Harrold, I expect my daughter’s honour to remain intact.” There was something in his voice and it made Sansa’s tummy flip. Harry took it as a father protecting his child, regardless whether they were betrothed or not.

“Of course, my lord,” he bowed before smiling at Alayne. “Until tomorrow.”

Petyr gestured Sansa into his solar and bolted the door. He wanted privacy and no unexpected interruptions.

“So soon?” he gave her a raised eyebrow. Was Petyr disappointed she let Harry kiss her?

“It happened so quickly,” she mumbled and felt herself blush as he stared at her in a way she wasn’t accustomed to.

“Clearly your little ruse has been successful,” he smiled but his eyes didn’t as he poured himself a glass of wine, sitting down. “I would have made him wait a bit longer before allowing such intimacy.”

 _Would you?_ _You had no problem kissing Myranda so soon._ For all Sansa knew, last night wasn’t the first time. Maybe they had secret kisses for a while or even more...

“How was your first kiss by the way?” He was clinical and reverted to his scheming self. They both knew it was not her first kiss.

“Quite lovely,” she lied. Funny enough, Sansa could barely remember the kiss from moments earlier. “Though, I’m not used to being kissed.”

Petyr’s green eyes studied her from across the room. It was overly warm in here and it wasn’t the fire. Why did she say that? She had meant kisses from suitors. Petyr wasn’t her suitor. She avoided his stare and expected him to jape about all the times he had kissed her. _Like a father, not a lover_ , she convinced herself. Only twice had he kissed her in a most unfatherly fashion.

He was quiet and the way he looked at Sansa had her fidgeting terribly.

“And would you know how to handle him if he kissed you again?”

“I don’t understand.”

Petyr rose and crossed to her as Sansa felt her breath hitch.

“Would you know when to tell him to stop? You’ve allowed him a kiss, chaste at that, but now he knows it is permitted. You may be my bastard, but you are a virtuous maiden and must remain so until marriage,” he warned and a fit of anger began to build inside her as Marillion’s words echoed back.

 _There’s no wench half so lusty as bastard born._ Is that what Harry thought as well? Petyr seemed to think so.

“You would know about whores, wouldn’t you?” she growled under her breath. “Is that what you’re calling me?”

Petyr took hold of her arms and she could barely meet his gaze.

“ _No,_ sweetling,” he pressed. “If you lose yourself in his kiss, then it will only embolden him. It was _I_ that stopped him just now. I won’t always be there to safeguard you.”

“You think I’m some stupid, little girl,” she frowned. “You treat me like a stupid girl.”

“ _Do I_?” his voice dropped an octave and his tone made her tummy burn a little. Those green eyes bore into her and it made her squirm.

“He’s just an arrogant boy, too drunk on himself,” she parried when Petyr stepped closer.

“Mm-hmm. A drunk boy that has sired two babes from two different wenches. He knows what he is doing, like most men. You must keep him at bay…”

“A kiss is not…” What was the word Myranda used? “ _Fucking._ ”

There, that shocked him! He didn’t know she knew that word, did he? She wasn’t a child anymore.

“It depends on the kiss.” Petyr’s eyes darkened. “And who’s kissing.”

Sansa was indeed naïve because she had no idea what he meant. A kiss was only a kiss. There were plenty of wenches astride some knights and squires tonight and last. Sansa had no plan to do such a thing with Harry like some common harlot.

“Would you be able to fend me off?” His voice was so sultry that it didn’t sound like him anymore. The man before her was lustful, not the sweet Petyr that stole a kiss and then acted like her father. An aching began somewhere below her tummy. She should back away from him, but the look in his eyes made her weak with wonder.

“But you’re my father…” she whispered a feeble protest as his head lowered.

“No, I’m not,” he muttered before claiming her mouth. Unlike the first time, there was no resistance from her. Her eyes fluttered close as he deepened his kiss, pulling her body flush against him and trapping her hands on his chest clad in thin silk.

Petyr’s arm wrapped around her middle and one hand caressed the back of her neck, his fingers threading through her hair. His mouth tasted so sweet and Sansa’s inhibitions fell away. Petyr had never kissed her like this before. No man had ever kissed her like this.

Was this desire? Petyr’s lips were heady things as they tasted her. His mouth travelled along her jaw and found a throbbing pulse on her neck. Did he kiss Myranda like this?

_No, he’s kissing you. Don’t let her ruin this moment. You wanted this, didn’t you?_

“Sansa, kiss me,” he moaned softly along her skin and took her mouth once more. His kisses before had been one-sided and nothing as hot-blooded as this.

Her hands crept up nervously and when fingers grazed his jawline, she felt like drowning. That ache was now a burning and she wanted more. Tentatively, she gave small teases as he let her kiss him at her own pace. Her breathing was so heavy, the corset had become even more restricting. She wanted more but didn’t know how to tell him. She _was_ naïve.

Stealing the power back, Petyr devoured her mouth taking her breath away. His tongue lightly touched hers, asking for permission and the idea was so foreign to her, she didn’t know what to do and let him in. It was all-consuming and her blood was raging. Her arm curled around his neck and she was lost.

Her body melded into his, she could feel his muscles move under his tunic that was sheer compared to the heavy doublet. Did she dare touch him? Would she let him touch her? Right now, Sansa didn’t care for this felt so good. Harry’s kiss was nothing compared to this.

“I want you, sweetling,” he groaned and Sansa ached hearing him say it. A pleasure spiked between her legs and she was beginning to understand what Myranda meant. “I want to feel you… the taste of you…”

Oh gods be good. The picture it created in her mind was pure sin. Fingers traced a breast and pulled lightly at the ties on her dress and suddenly it all stopped.

Breathless, Sansa opened her eyes and found him staring at her in a peculiar way. Why did he stop? This was wonderful, better than she could have imagined.

“And _that_ , my dear, is why you must always be on your guard,” he spoke coolly and stepped away, straightening his tunic. “Would you have let me touch you… my fingers buried between your legs until you found release? Or thrust myself inside and thus ruin your chances for marriage?”

Sansa’s mind raced as the pleasurable ache dulled and fury arose. What was this game? Was he _teaching_ her? Could he kiss her like that and have it mean nothing?

“You are upset,” he sighed and poured another glass of wine. “I meant not to play you false in this lesson. I only want you to know what you’re up against… how you cannot afford to let your passions get the better of you. You are so innocent, I know, and that’s why I needed to show you. I don’t trust Harry or any man here with your virtue.”

Sansa was so furious she wanted to break everything in this room as her hands clenched into fists.

“Or trust yourself,” she spat and didn’t care if he knew how angry she was. Damn him! She almost gave herself to him tonight. That was his point, wasn’t it? She lost control. Harry would not have made her feel this way. Petyr didn’t know.

“I see,” she wiped his taste from her mouth. “A lesson for an apt pupil. Is there any more you would like to teach me tonight, _Father_?”

His eyes were full of something… regret, sadness? No, he didn’t want her to ruin their plans and give her maidenhead too early to future husband. How could he kiss her like that if he didn’t care or desire her at all? Probably the same reason why he kissed Myranda.

Sansa didn’t wait for his answer and stormed out the door, slamming it behind her. The noise startled someone in the black corridor and Alayne made sure she put on her armour. Whoever it was, would be curious as to why the Lord Protector’s daughter was leaving his solar so late and so loudly.

“My lady,” a gruff voice greeted and the man came into the pale light.

“Ser Lyn,” she tried not to sound so surprised. Why was he up here? He didn’t reply and simply passed by, heading down the stairs. Was he eavesdropping?

Sansa stepped back to her own chambers and spied another in the darkness, trying to hide.

“ _Myranda_?"


	3. The Champion

“Myranda?” Sansa squinted in the darkness and it was her. “What are you doing?” she whispered knowing Petyr was nearby.

“Alayne,” she giggled nervously and stumbled to stand. “I’m so embarrassed.”

It wasn’t as though she caught the girl eavesdropping, she had Ser Lyn with her or so it seemed. Ser Lyn was Petyr’s man, regardless that he spoke nothing but loathing about the Lord Protector. It’s what her father paid him well for, but Sansa had her reservations after yesterday afternoon. He was incensed about Petyr arranging the marriage for his old brother, Lionel with a young wife. Ser Lyn was his brother’s heir and now the new bride was with child. Sansa could be thinking too much into it.

“Ser Lyn?” Alayne asked pointedly, knowing Myranda had eyed him before she set her sights on Petyr. The girl wasn’t getting out of this so easily.

“He was walking me to my chambers… and I slipped. I’m so stupid.” Ser Lyn walked Myranda Royce back to her rooms?

“Why? I thought you were interested in my father?” she pretended to be nervous with Petyr’s solar behind them.

“Oh yes, I still am…but Ser Lyn is rather nice-looking isn’t he?” Myranda fidgeted and came into the light. Sansa thought herself that Ser Lyn was a handsome older man, but his hard demeanour and lack of any fortune would make any marriage pointless for a lady.

The sconce highlighted her face and Sansa was about to giggle because Myranda had a smear of cream from the cakes at dessert. Sansa made a gesture to her upper lip and Myranda’s eyes widened and wiped her mouth quickly, horrified.

“Gods…” the girl whimpered. “You won’t say anything will you?”

Who wants to know that, Sansa wanted to ask? Then it all dawned on her. The dark corridor. Both she and Ser Lyn were surprised, and he fled as fast as possible. Myranda trying to hide… _Oh!_

Sansa blushed so hard, her skin was aflame. Myranda had been _… Oh, dear_. The smear on her lip wasn’t from dessert, it was a man’s…

“No, of course not,” Sansa stammered. “I’m only surprised, that is all.”

Why would Ser Lyn be interested in her? Petyr’s voice was in her head. _All he likes is gold and boys and killing._ Now the question – was Petyr wrong or Myranda hiding something else?

Sansa peeked back and knew she needed to get away from here. She would speak to Petyr later. Now, wasn’t the time, especially after their own little episode. No one suspected her and Petyr did they? Sansa grabbed the girl’s arm and closed the door on her apartments.

Myranda glanced in the looking glass and adjusted her appearance. Sansa was still reeling after Petyr had kissed her with such passion. She wanted him to touch her, excited that he said he wanted her. The whole time Myranda was giving Ser Lyn pleasure in the hallway. The image in her head was confounding. Why would a woman want to perform such an act? Only the man would benefit, not only with pleasure but not getting a woman with child.

“What’s it like?” Sansa heard herself say accidentally and put a hand to her mouth.

Myranda turned with a big smile and came to sit down by Alayne as if nothing had changed between them.

“Putting your mouth to a man?” the girl giggled. Sansa was curious but at the same time, it put Myranda at ease with no suspicions. Sansa nodded shyly. “Oh, it depends on the man. You can turn a strong man to butter. He thinks he has the power, but it’s actually you. You control the pleasure he seeks. Very few girls want to take a cock that way which is why men like it so much.”

“Did Ser Lyn like it?”

“Well, I was doing well until interrupted, but never you mind. It wasn’t your fault,” Myranda smiled. “I might have sucked him all the way to my bedchamber. I was right. He has quite the sausage between his legs.”

Sansa couldn’t stop flushing bright red. Myranda had touched Petyr under his robes, bedded Marillion and now working on Ser Lyn. Couldn’t she be satisfied with one man?

“Ah well. I won’t get him again, I fear,” she sighed. “I’ll have to make sure your father puts down his quill and coin and attend to my needs. He’s a quiet one, isn’t he? Do you think he’s boring or completely wicked in bed?”

Her cheeks burned again because only moments ago Petyr had ravaged her mouth and neck. He could have touched indecently, and Sansa would have let him. Sansa wasn’t sure if she was relieved he was teaching her self-control or sorely disappointed.

“You’re such an innocent thing,” the girl laughed. “Wait until Harry tries to have his way with you. He likes his women… _adventurous_. He will educate you and cool that blush of yours soon enough.”

That struck fear in her belly. _I shall never forgive you for stealing him away from me._ Had Harry and Myranda been intimate? Considering how many men she mentioned since her husband died, it was a fair question. Now, Sansa could appreciate why Petyr did what he did. He knew Harry better than she and her anger began to die away.

_He’s trying to protect you. He doesn’t want you that way, he was only seeing what you could not._

Sansa was such a fool. Petyr had been gently educating her since the first kiss in the snow. That’s all it ever was. He was gauging her reaction, naivety and what she would do. Since Harry arrived, Petyr must have known she would be flustered and besotted by his attentions. Only she wasn’t.

“It’s only a betrothal, maybe he will go back to his Saffron in Gulltown,” Sansa shrugged. “He’s clearly enamoured with her; not a bastard born. Ser Byron is handsome and Targon is not ugly. I doubt Lady Anya would find my dowry suitable for Ser Roland… hence why father settled for Harry.”

“Are you dense?” Myranda laughed. “If that little brat, Robert dies, Harry will be Lord of the Vale and you, his ladywife. That’s more than anything Roland can offer. I’m not even good enough for Harry as he is now, let alone any other Waynwood, so I must find what I can. With your father as an advisor, I would still be a wealthy wife.”

Sansa listened and tried to appear surprised by the revelation. The more Myranda talked the more Sansa learned her possible motives. However, like Petyr, she could be only telling Alayne what she wanted her to know.

“Well, if I don’t like Harry, then I will beg my father. My happiness is important to him,” Sansa sighed. “I don’t care about being Lady of the Vale.”

So much of that statement was true that Myranda would never understand. For now, the girl did not pursue the matter any longer. Alayne undressed and excused herself to go to bed. There was too much plaguing her mind tonight and needed rest.

* * *

The final matches of the tourney were in full swing midafternoon. Ser Lyn, Targon, Harry and a few others had only a few points separating them. Petyr was nowhere to be found and Sansa desperately wanted to tell him what she learned last night.

Harry was in a foul mood. At the beginning of the day, he came asking for Sansa’s favour. Her father’s words ran through her head all night. Alayne had allowed Harry too much too soon. She refused the blonde once more to his ire.

“You must prove yourself worthy and earn my favour, ser. I will give it to no knight today unless he is the champion,” she smiled and hoped Petyr would be proud once more.

It did not go as planned and Sansa felt she had made a huge mistake. Harry stomped off and did not acknowledge her at all. Sword on foot was the first event and Ser Lyn made quick work of many knights just as Myranda predicted. Ser Targon and Harry were matched and the victor would face Ser Lyn.

It was brutal. All of the knights knew who Harry, Robert’s heir was, and perhaps were easier on him, without so much as letting him win matches. No one expected Robert to survive and that made Sansa feel very sad. That boy, as horrible as he could be due to his mother’s coddling, was written off as dead already.

The men cheered the match. Targon was still reeling from yesterday’s joust and seemed to have the favour of the crowd. Harry was a fierce fighter as Targon hit the man hard, time and time again. He was not going to let Harry the Heir win by default. The men were tiring in their heavy chainmail and armour. Harry swung and missed a few times leaving himself open to Targon, who outweighed him easily.

Ser Targon’s sword swung and hit the blonde, knocking him down each time. The swords were blunted for matches such as this but it didn’t make it any less dangerous. Ser Lyn proved that in practice when he almost took a man’s head off. The man had the advantage and the last swing had Harry down on the ground.

The crowd cheered as Ser Targon was deemed the winner and to face Ser Lyn. Squires pulled Harry up, making sure he wasn’t dead or seriously injured. His helm removed, the look on Harry’s face was rage. He was not used to be being beaten, Sansa suspected.

Ser Targon found Alayne in the stands with Myranda and bowed to her. “My lady, I will win this tournament for you. Your favour is in my heart!”

Myranda was overjoyed and thought it was thrilling a spectacle. “Five dragons says Ser Lyn wins within the first few minutes,” she nudged Alayne.

Sansa didn’t really care and watched Harry. He caught her gaze and frowned. This was her fault, he probably thought. Ser Targon won dramatically yesterday and Harry bragged he would take the man down handily. He would rest, for the joust was after the last melee.

Alayne handed over the coins to her friend when Ser Lyn succeeded with ease. He had already lost in an earlier joust and would not compete in the finale with Targon, Harry, Byron and Brune. They tilted and the people cheered. The final competitors would be Ser Targon and Harry once more and Sansa was feeling sick.

This is what she and Petyr had intended but there was something in Harry today that filled her with apprehension, that she had pushed the boy too far with her coquettish play.

“I see I’ve come at the right time,” Petyr’s spirited voice sounded beside her. Myranda gave him a seductive smile but Petyr paid her no mind and sat next to his daughter. “How is our young falcon doing?” he whispered in Sansa’s ear.

“Ser Targon beat him badly in the sword but Ser Lyn was champion,” she said and couldn’t make her nerves calm down.

“And now Targon and Harry tilt for tourney champion,” he said. “Targon has the crowd with him.”

Petyr’s observations were dead correct. Harry had been the favourite to win today and yet yesterday’s miraculous performance made Targon the favoured one. They were all chanting his name, not Harry’s.

The first hit was Ser Targon’s, his lance breaking and the crowd was wild. Returning for a new lance, he raised his visor and saluted Alayne alongside the Lord Protector.

“For you, my lady, I will win!” he yelled. “…and ask not for your favour, but your hand, if the Lord Protector permits.”

Alayne turned bright red and looked at Petyr. “I did not encourage him, Father.”

Petyr took her hand, patting it. “Of course not, my dear. It is only the heat of the moment. Your hand is not the champion’s prize.”

The knights took their places and the squire waved the flag. The men charged full speed and time slowed down. Harry’s lance struck and to everyone’s shock, Ser Targon barreled backwards, falling to the ground, unhorsed horrifically.

Sansa stood to see as the crowd hushed to silence. She felt like she was back in King’s Landing when she saw a knight die, his blood splattering on the people. Petyr was at her side that day and he was holding her hand now.

Harry rode around and dismounted at Ser Targon’s body. The man was bleeding profusely from the neck and all Sansa could think was that it was her fault. She chose him, gave him her favour. It was because of her that Petyr made sure they competed against each other.

“You are not the heir to the Vale. You are not allowed to be champion,” Harry spat ruthlessly appalling everyone within earshot. His broken lance was wedged in the man’s neck and Sansa couldn’t believe any maester would be able to save him. Without an ounce of mercy, Harry stamped the wood through Targon’s body, killing him instantly.

_Oh Gods... he's dead because of me. I killed him._

“Your hand belongs to no man but me,” he roared.

There was no air, she couldn’t breathe. Her hand was clammy in Petyr’s. Ser Targon’s lifeless and bloody body lay at the feet of her future husband. No, not him, her mind screamed. I did not escape King’s Landing to marry another Joffrey.

Sansa’s feet and legs went numb and she was falling. Hands grabbed her body all but too late as her head struck something hard and everything went black.


	4. Sweetsleep

Gentle hands lifted her head and lips spoke softly into her ear. Sansa was in a daze. The back of her head throbbed terribly when those same arms lifted her into a warm embrace. Voices sounded in the commotion and she couldn’t breathe. Arms held her tight as Sansa floated with a heartbeat. Was it the pounding in her head or the chest she lay against? Someone was carrying her in haste. The air was suddenly cool and those voices echoed as if bouncing around in her mind.

Her eyes peaked open in delirium and lit sconces passed one by one. A silver mockingbird glimmered in the dim light and Petyr’s breathing was more laboured as he climbed many stairs. Where was she, home or back in Kings Landing… the Eyrie? The pain was making Sansa nauseous and her eyes drifted closed again.

 _I’d rather be dead than marry…_ who was she supposed to marry? What was his name?

“Bring Maester Coleman to my chambers,” Petyr’s voice bellowed and a door opened. “Gretchel, come with me.”

Sansa was laid upon something soft but those hands kept her upright. “Unlace her dress and corset.” Another pair of hands worked quickly and when constriction abated, Sansa gasped for the air she desperately needed.

“That’s it, sweetling,” he cooed in her ear. “Breathe.”

His hand rested between her bare shoulder blades and the other at her neck. Something warm trickled on her damp skin. Lightly, he rocked Sansa just like father did. No, he wasn’t Father, was he? Would Mother come soon? She needed her mother more than anything right now.

_I don’t want to marry Joffrey._

“Sssh, darling,” her father hummed. “Don’t speak. Rest, my daughter. _I’m here_. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The dress pulled away, she was laid down. The room was spinning and the bed rocked as though it were a boat.

“Girl, fetch a bowl.” No sooner did her stomach turn and everything up-ended. Hands soothed her back and that soft voice cursed.

“My lord, I was told it was urgent… your daughter…” The maester’s voice trailed off.

“She fainted at the joust and struck her head,” Petyr worried over her. “The back of her head is bleeding.”

Sansa had no concept of time as her mind wandered. She was moved, lifted up, fingers pressing into her skull, forcing a whimper. The entire time, Petyr’s voice was soft and sweet. She hadn’t a clue what was said, only that he never left her side.

“It’s hard to say, my lord. Women are such frail things,” the man sighed after a time as a cloth was wrapped around her head. “The compress should contain the bleeding, however, we can only wait for her wake and pray a fever doesn’t come.”

“Where is she?” a masculine voice yelled followed by a more feminine one.

“Move aside, she needs me.”

Petyr sighed and moved off the bed. “Ser Harrold, Lady Myranda…” he began but Sansa couldn’t focus on his words. “My daughter needs quiet and rest and that’s what she’ll receive. I must ask everyone to leave.”

“We should move Alayne to her bedchamber and…”

“My daughter will remain under my supervision. I will keep you informed of her well-being. Right now, Maester Coleman and I will attend to her.” A low agitation was forming by his tone.

“Lord Baelish, surely the companionship of other ladies would be better under the circumstances,” Harry muttered.

“Ser Harrold, I’ll be blunt. It was your antics today that caused her condition. The joust is no doubt dangerous, but such a display was too much for her delicate disposition. My daughter is not accustomed to such violence,” Petyr argued. “I’m not risking her in anyone else’s charge at the moment. She is my only child. If you care anything for her, you will let her be.”

A heated argument began, and Petyr’s ire finally rose to a new level.

“Out! All of you!”

A door was shut and finally, the room was filled with peace. The mattress dipped from his weight and Petyr wrung out a cloth, applying it gently to her face and neck.

“It’s all right now, sweetling,” he whispered. “It’s only you and I.”

She wanted to take his hand, but her mind was addled. She couldn’t move a limb if she tried. Sansa could hear him, feel his touch and yet couldn’t open her eyes or speak. Her mind leapt from one thing to another and time no longer mattered.

Joffrey stood laughing as she was beaten in the middle of the court.

“Sssh,” Petyr’s voice would overcome the nightmare. “He’s not here.”

Tyrion had crawled into bed with her, this time ignoring her refusal.

_No, I don’t want to. You promised._

“It’s only me, sweetling,” Petyr crooned, taking her wrists as she lashed out.

Her minded danced with Marillion playing his awful music while Aunt Lysa was pushing Sansa towards the Moon Door. Her feet slid on the ice and snow only no one would come to her rescue this time. Why had Petyr not come? He should be here to save her.

Sansa screamed and screamed when the cold air took her. Her arms and legs flailed at nothing and she fell faster and faster. She could see the rocky terrain below…

Her eyes jolted open and her heart was beating rapidly. Sansa gulped down air as if she had been drowning. A warm body held her tight, caressing her back.

“You’re alright,” he breathed in her ear. “I have you. You’re safe my darling.”

Tears stung Sansa’s dry eyes as her arms slid around Petyr’s waist, holding him for dear life. He began rocking her, his lips resting on her damp neck. She couldn’t stop shaking. Sansa wasn’t sure if she was cold or hot.

“It’s only the fever,” he hushed and pulled Sansa’s arms from him, leaning back to look at her. “Do you know where you are, sweetling?”

Sansa’s eyes flitted around the room. It was Petyr’s bedchamber. She was in his bed. Finding his concerned face again, she could only nod. Ever so softly, his fingers wiped away her tears with a look of sorrow in his eyes. He leaned over and grasped a cup, bringing it to her lips.

“Drink slowly.”

Sansa didn’t know she was so thirsty and had to keep herself from guzzling it down. Petyr laid her back down, pulling up the bedclothes.

“I had hoped the fever would break soon,” he smiled. “Maester Coleman wasn’t as convinced, but I knew my sweetling. She is so very strong.”

He pressed a cool cloth to her forehead and Sansa practically leaned into his touch.

“What day is it?” she choked out.

Petyr kept to his task, letting the water cool down her skin. “It’s been three days.”

 _Three days?_ She opened her eyes and observed him. Petyr’s face was rough. He hadn’t shaved recently. In fact, he looked exhausted. He was only wearing his gold tunic. Had he really been here all that time? Glancing around, they were alone.

“I didn’t dare chance others alone with you,” Petyr sighed. “You were quite delirious in your ramblings. I feared that they would learn who you really are. It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t help yourself.”

Sansa’s last memory was Harry killing Ser Targon and all the guilt flooded back.

“I killed him,” she sniffed, and her eyes welled up again. Sweet and lovely Ser Targon. He did not deserve that. If she had not picked him, he might still be alive.

“Oh sweetling, don’t,” Petyr sighed, taking her hand. “You could not have predicted such a thing. Tourney’s are terribly treacherous, and all the men know this when they decide to compete.”

“But I taunted Harry, refused my favour again,” she cried softly. “I was afraid I allowed him too much that night and didn’t want…”

“Because of what I told you.” She glanced at him and there was something she couldn’t quite place in Petyr’s eyes. “Harry’s ego got the better of him. Targon taunted him. His death is not your fault. You’ll soon learn that what men want more than anything is to win at something, to best someone.”

“You as well?” Sansa didn’t realize she said it.

He smiled and it did not reach his eyes. “You already know the answer to that.”

“You want me to marry such a man?” Sansa groaned. She couldn’t get the vision out of her mind when Harry killed him.

Petyr sighed and kissed her hand tenderly. He debated his next words very carefully. “Targon could not have survived such a wound. Harry… put him out of his misery. Bleeding to death would have been slow and painful.”

Sansa yanked her hand back. “That was not mercy,” she breathed in horror. “You heard him.”

“He was horribly jealous, yes. He clearly wants you,” Petyr said slowly gauging her reaction. “He’s come multiple times, every day to see you. To apologize…”

“I don’t want _him_ ,” she blurted out. “He’s just like…. You know who he reminds me of. When he takes power, how do you think he’ll behave, a perfect gentleman? He’s a snake now.”

Petyr took her hands again in a soothing way. “Sweetling, I am not blind nor deaf. Do not think I am not considering all things. I will not allow any harm to come to you.”

“Oh, but you’re fine with him taking me as wife… bedding me?” she snapped. “I will not do it.”

The pain in her head was excruciating. Sansa did not want to argue about this. She didn’t want to think about any of it. She would not marry such a man, not for Winterfell, not for anyone or anything. 

“I do not want you to marry him,” he said plainly. “Robert will not live, and the Vale _will_ go to Harry. Sweetling, if there is another way to get Winterfell for you, please tell me. I will do it.”

“No word on Tyrion?” Sansa turned on her side away from him. His pillow smelled of sandalwood. “How can I marry unless he’s… “

“No. The last I heard from Cersei and my spies that he has disappeared.” Petyr shifted and there was something he wasn’t telling her. “The spider is gone, I’ve just learned.”

The headache was getting worse by the minute. Tyrion escaped execution somehow and the master of secrets had disappeared.

“Together?”

“Possibly. The more I think on it,” he stretched his back. “The more I believe Jaime and Varys helped him. Jaime was always fond of his brother. The spider has a new game. One I haven’t quite figured out yet.”

_Tyrion was kind to me. I don’t want to be his wife, but I don’t wish him death._

Fingers ran through her hair as lips met her temple. “Don’t think on it any longer. I will not force you into anything. You are the most important thing to me, sweetling. _Rest_. We will figure this out. Right now, I need you to get well. Would you like a touch of sweetsleep?”

Sansa wanted anything to dull the pain and nodded. Petyr retrieved a vile from the table and added a few drops into a glass.

“This will give you dreamless sleep,” he lifted her head up. “I’ll have some dinner for you when you wake. You need to eat.”

Sansa sipped it and lay down. Petyr sat next to her and drew back sweaty strands of her hair away from her face. What was the expression in his eyes? Could she believe him? Petyr did get her out of Kings Landing and killed Lysa to protect her. He knew what a monster Joffrey was. He wouldn’t make her marry Harry, would he?

The tonic worked fast, helping fade those endless questions. She had to trust Petyr. Sansa had no one else. If Tyrion was still alive, she couldn’t marry Harry even if she wanted to, not as Sansa Stark at least. How long was she supposed to play Alayne Stone?

“I want to see her!” the girl shouted and woke Sansa as the girl pushed in the room. Myranda rushed over taking Sansa into a fierce hug. Sansa had to remind herself that they were still friends and embrace the girl back.

Over her shoulder, Sansa spied Petyr leaning against the door frame watching with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, you had me completely frantic, Alayne,” Myranda cried and Sansa felt numb, locking eyes with Petyr. Did he know about her? Should she tell him about Myranda and Ser Lyn that night? Sansa had almost forgotten until now. “Such terrible business. I smacked Harry good for that disgusting display. You poor thing, never been to a joust in your life….”

Sansa couldn’t break Petyr’s stare as if he was reading her mind. She didn’t want to talk to Myranda. All she wanted to do was go back to sleep.

“Father says I’ll be fine,” she coughed a bit. “I’m so very tired and my head is killing me. I’ve never seen a man die before… Poor Ser Targon…”

Petyr’s eyes twinkled a bit and a slight smirk formed. Why did her tummy flip at his approval? Myranda practically squeezed the air from Sansa’s lungs. “I’ve seen Harry joust. He can be ruthless. Oh, if you had not been injured, I would be jealous. I know he’s come here every day asking for you.”

“Has he?” Sansa faked interest.

“Smartly, your father kept him at bay,” Myranda said loud enough for Petyr to hear and it made Sansa gag. “He was right foul at your father. You should make him suffer. Harry should beg your forgiveness.”

 _So, she was set on Petyr for a husband, was she?_ Sansa wanted to push the girl away… perhaps even off a cliff.

“Lady Myranda,” Petyr interrupted to Sansa’s peace of mind. “Alayne is famished after three days. Forgive me, but I would also like to refrain from speaking about the tourney. I don’t wish to upset her.”

Gratefully, the girl smiled and stood from the bed. “Of course. She is such an innocent thing.” Sansa watched the brunette change from concerned friend to seductress in one move. “Such a devoted father, my lord. I’m sure you must be exhausted from playing nursemaid this whole time. Shouldn’t you take time away and unwind yourself? Gretchel can look after Alayne for a spell.”

The sparkle in Petyr’s eyes vanished instantly and it gave Sansa a little thrill. He didn’t want Myranda, did he?

“Regrettably, I must decline. I will dine with my daughter tonight.” Petyr had a stiffness to his voice.

“And afterwards?” Myranda whispered but Sansa still heard the girl and frowned. “I can guarantee you will sleep well tonight.”

Sansa was ready for Petyr to refuse her abruptly, but his next words deepened her scowl.

“Perhaps another time, my lady,” he smiled but Sansa couldn’t see his eyes. Did he mean it?

Myranda practically sashayed out of the room as Petyr walked her out. Sansa could hear the door close from his solar moments later before he returned to his bedchamber.

 _Kiss her goodnight?_ she wanted to ask but held her tongue. All those awful feelings came forward when Petyr set a tray over her lap in bed.

“I wasn’t sure what you might like since you slept all afternoon. I figured your tummy would still be tender,” he smiled. “Fruit, cheese and bread. Will that suffice for tonight?”

Petyr knew her so well. She couldn’t stomach anything heavy. He left the room and returned with another plate of food and a flagon of wine.

“Maester Coleman has made a tea for you.” Petyr popped a grape into his mouth. “It smells like dirty linen, I must warn you. I’d let you have a glass of wine but combined with sweetsleep? I would prefer you wake up afterwards.”

“I’ll chance it,” Sansa ate ravenously.

Petyr poured a half glass, handing it to her. “Slow down or it will come right back up. I can always bring you more.”

Sansa didn’t realize how hungry she was until that first bite. Three days, he said. Of course she was starving. They barely spoke and Sansa was thankful. She wasn’t lying to Myranda. She was exhausted. The wine started kicking in when Petyr removed the tray. Her stomach cramped and hated that Petyr was right once again. She ate too quickly.

“I’ll have Gretchel change the linens tomorrow unless you’re ready to return to your own bed,” Petyr said with his back to her. That was a loaded statement. Was he telling her to go back to her room or stay a while longer in his? Sansa weighed her answer.

“If I go back now,” she muttered. “I’ll be bombarded by Myranda and Harry. I’m not ready to face them on my own yet.”

Petyr turned and the smile reached his eyes, that sparkle returning. “I suppose I can survive a few more nights in that lounging chair by the fire,” he jested. Is that where he had been sleeping? Sansa had sat in it many times while Petyr was working in his solar.

The bed was large enough, but he wouldn’t dare share it with her. She was his daughter and it would look most improper for a girl her age. Sansa wasn’t his daughter though and Petyr had never taken advantage of her in that way.

 _He did kiss you senseless the other night, if you remember_.

Yes, but it was only a lesson, to teach her how to handle men that wanted…

_Would you be able to fend me off? It depends on the kiss and who is kissing…_

They hadn’t been alone since that night. Sansa was all too aware she was in his bed. Petyr removed his doublet, hanging in on a chair. Without a word, he filled the basin with water and lathered his hands. Sansa watched in fascination as he shaved in the candlelight. Splashing fresh water on his face, he dabbed it dry.

Petyr caught her staring and chuckled. “Steady hands, my dear. At least it’s growing back. I wasn’t pleased when Lysa had me shave it all off. I look like a boy with a clean face.”

She forgot that Petyr could only be in his early thirties by the way Lysa talked. He wanted to be taken more seriously and the facial hair did make him look older. Sansa remembered that kiss in the snowy courtyard. His face was smooth and cold but his lips were warm.

“I thought you looked nice enough,” she mumbled to herself but it made Petyr howl.

When he kissed her the other night, his moustache tickled a bit and left a slight burn on her upper lip. Would he shave for her if she asked? Sansa cursed herself. What in the world was she thinking?

“Harry must be as dense as I figured him to be if he laps up those compliments,” he laughed and it wasn’t to be cruel. Sansa couldn’t hide her smile. “Do you prefer a clean-shaven mouth to kiss sweetling, like our Harry?”

That shocked Sansa and she felt herself turn bright red. Petyr had to know she enjoyed his kiss that night. He had her filled with wanting more. It wasn’t a lesson until he told her so. Harry’s kiss, on the other hand, was dry and forgettable.

Gretchel knocked before entering and asking Petyr if he wanted his bath. He glanced Sansa’s way and gave his instructions. He was busy working in his solar when a hot bath was ready. Bolting the door, Sansa sent Gretchel away, craving privacy. The water eased her aches and pains. The fire was roaring in his room and Sansa thought she could fall asleep right here.

There was a large bump on the back of her skull and a very tender spot that had begun scabbing over. Sansa hit her head hard enough to cut it open. No wonder she was out of her mind for days. Careful not to slip, she stepped out of the tub and dried off. His bed linen was refreshed, and clean nightclothes had been set out for her.

Opening the adjoining door, Petyr was consumed with the letters on his desk. The only sounds were the scratching of his quill and the crackle of the fire. Wrapping in her dressing gown, Sansa padded towards him and sat on the lounge chair. Petyr had been sleeping here for days.

“The water is still warm,” she offered stupidly not knowing what to say.

Putting his quill down, Petyr stretched a bit. “You left me a warm bath?” he chuckled. “I half expected it to be ice cold by now.”

“Oh, I can summon Gretchel…”

“Sweetling, it’s getting late. I’d rather be brief. I still have much to do,” he waved her off and strode to his room closing the door. Petyr didn’t bother bolting as she had. He knew she would never come in while he was bathing. Sansa knew that he would not have betrayed her trust and walk in on her completely vulnerable, yet she was used to keeping doors locked.

Petyr’s solar was warm and inviting and she actually liked being in this room. He bathed quietly in the next room and it gave Sansa a moment to look around. Stacks of parchment and letters awaited him. Being Lord Protector was tedious work for Sansa rarely saw Petyr lately and had to fend for herself most days.

She spied the wine on his desk and checked the closed door. What Petyr didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him. She drank a full glass and relaxed on the lounge chair. It was leather and had enough cushioning but sleeping on this night after night had to be tiresome. Petyr would be grateful to have his bed back very soon, Sansa was betting.

Another glass of wine and Sansa’s mind became fuzzy all too quickly. She took the sweetsleep earlier in the day, surely it wouldn’t be a problem but after two glasses and the bit Petyr gave her, something was not right. Sitting up, her vision doubled. Why didn’t she listen to him? There was a reason why he barely gave her little more than a taste.

Sansa could hardly stand. This wasn’t good at all. It was hard to make out the connecting door as she took a few uncertain steps. “Father?” her voice squeaked out. Gods be good, she was feeling faint. Glancing back to the chair, it seemed so far away.

“Petyr,” she called out before collapsing to the floor. Her body was trembling all over. She was going to be sick again.

The door flew open and Petyr rushed in. He was half-dressed, his tunic hanging open. He must have barely finished his bath when she called out for him. Not wasting a moment, Petyr pulled her up and Sansa’s legs wouldn’t support her at all. Sweeping her up into his arms, he took her back to bed.

“Look at me,” he demanded. Petyr examined her face and then felt behind her head. “What happened? I heard you fall. It must be your head.”

Her head was spinning. She did not want to vomit again and willed her stomach to settle. Dare she lie to him?

“I think the wine…” she muttered and hoped he wouldn’t question her more about it.

She could see Petyr was thinking it through. He gave her the dose, knew the passing time and how much wine he gave her.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he frowned and kissed her forehead. He thought it was his fault. “Perhaps the hot bath made it worse…”

Sansa didn’t think of that. It didn’t matter now as long as he didn’t berate her for drinking without his knowledge. Petyr worried over her, making sure she was comfortable and tending to her every need. She liked it when he doted on her. In these rare moments, she was his whole world.

It wasn’t until he caught her staring when he fastened the ties to his silk tunic. Petyr was a smaller man than those towering knights. He was strong enough to carry her all the way from the tourney. He had a slim build but it was an angry scar from his collarbone than ran down the length of him that had her eyes widen.

She knew the story. Uncle Brandon had practically cut him in two when he was her age. Sansa couldn’t even fathom it. Her uncle was a massive man and Petyr was just a boy. From Aunt Lysa’s account, no one did anything for him except ship him back to the Fingers. By the Gods, it was no wonder he became the man she knew today.

“Rather handsome, isn’t it?” Petyr’s voice cut through her thoughts. She was still staring at him. He wasn’t angry that she saw it.

“Does it hurt?” Sansa managed to say.

His head bowed as Petyr’s hands rested on his hips. This was something he did not like to talk about. It was literally an old wound but still fresh it seemed.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized quickly. “I should not have asked.”

“I usually keep it well hidden,” he smiled but his tone made Sansa sad. He wore all those high collars even in King’s Landings sweltering summers. “There are days the pain will come. I’ve noticed the cold has become an issue. I rather miss the warmer weather.”

Petyr was trying to make light of it, but Sansa knew this subject bothered him. He sat next to her again and smiled. “I suppose a knight would flaunt such a scar. I told myself that as a boy. Surely a lady wouldn’t find it grotesque considering I battled for love.” His gaze was somewhere in the past and Sansa wondered what it must have been like for him. “Such a fool, I was.”

Sansa took his hand gently. She didn’t know what to say to him. What words of hers could be of any comfort? Her mother didn’t understand, but Sansa did. Lysa was too consumed with her own fantasies and obsessions to see what he was going through. Lysa used him as much as he used her.

“Should I call for Maester Coleman?” he asked, his eyes not meeting hers.

“No. If I lie down, I should be alright. No sweetsleep tonight,” she tried to laugh. His mouth twitched a bit at that.

“I have a bit of work still for tonight,” he began to stand, and Sansa held his hand tighter. She didn’t want him to leave yet. He was trying to distance himself.

“It’s silly, I know,” Sansa blushed. She knew what she was asking. “Will you stay a bit longer? Please?”

She could see the debate in his mind. They both knew he should leave. This was dangerous ground. It wouldn’t be improper if she had asked her father to stay. Petyr wasn’t her father. The atmosphere in the room was thick and her tummy fluttered.

“If you wish,” he answered after a long pause and shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. Sansa had never seen him this way. Petyr was always in control of everything. Seeing that scar, it was as though he shed half his years and it was that small boy sitting before her.

Sansa made a bold decision and moved across the bed, much to his shock. “We’re both exhausted. Lie down for a while. That chair must be horrible to sleep in.”

He had not moved a muscle and could only stare at her in wonder. _She just invited him into her bed_. Actually, it was his bed, she stole it from him. Still, a lady did not do such a thing, unless she was Myranda. Oh, the thought almost pulled a smile from her lips. If only the woman knew Alayne wasn’t his real daughter. Would she be jealous?

Sansa waited for what felt like an eternity. Petyr was going to refuse, she could tell. Courtesy demanded he do so. What in the world was she thinking? She might as well have asked him to bed her too.

Without a word, Petyr stood and walked out of the room. What else could he have done? She was such a stupid girl. Why did she do that? He would think Sansa was wanton, not the pure maiden as his pretended daughter.

She pulled the bedclothes up and turned on her side facing the fire. How would she be able to face him after that? Petyr knew she wasn’t as innocent as he paraded her to be for everyone to see. There was no misunderstanding of her invitation from a man's perspective. 

Several minutes later, he walked back in. Sansa didn’t dare look at him. His stare burned a hole in her back. Candles were snuffed to where the only light came from the fire. Sansa was waiting for him to go back to his solar and leave her in restless sleep. When the mattress dipped, she held her breath and knew not what she should do. Sansa couldn’t very well refuse him now. She offered him his bed. Would he sleep or expect something more?

Minutes felt like hours as Petyr adjusted the bedclothes. He kept to the far side of the bed but she could feel his body heat. It was cold in the room but Sansa was sweating. When a fur was pulled up over her, Sansa tried desperately not to flinch at his touch. If she was lucky, he would think she was already asleep. Perhaps he would lie down for a short time to rest, as she suggested, and return to his solar for the night.

He shifted around until finding a comfortable position as he sighed aloud. Petyr’s bed was softer than her own. If she could only quiet her mind, Sansa knew she could fall asleep. There was no way that lounge chair would have been restful in any way.

_Just close your eyes and go to sleep. He’s not going to touch you. You know he won’t._

No matter how she convinced herself, Sansa was wide awake. She felt transported back to Tyrion’s room. She was afraid to fall asleep with him there, never knowing if the dwarf would want to fulfil his husbandly duties.

_Petyr’s not your husband. If he wanted to take you, he would have done so long before now._

“Your thoughts are so loud, they’re keeping me awake, sweetling,” a tired voice grumbled. “If you wish me to leave, just say so.”

She hated he could read her mind so easily. Is that what she wanted? A proper lady would tell him to leave. She wanted Petyr to know she trusted him. 

“No,” she whispered. “It’s just… different. I’ve never shared a bed with a man before. I didn’t want you to think I was… wanton.”

“Or you thought, I’d refuse on your honour,” he chuckled a bit. “A soft bed is tempting thing. Sleep on that chair and you’ll agree with me.”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered in guilt.

“Don’t apologize for something out of your control,” he replied softly. “Of course, you are nervous. You are a well-bred and virtuous lady. Your only fault is your kindness. You thought of my well-being, not your own. I fear that purity in you… any other man would have taken advantage of it and be thrusting between your thighs right now.”

The image in her head sent an unexpected jolt to her groin just like the night he kissed her. He was always teaching her in the most unusual ways. Yet, there he lay, only an arm’s length away. Petyr had no intention of touching her. Now, they were surrounded in silence. Had he fallen asleep? Sansa didn’t have to courage to look, so she lay there with her thoughts.

She had a deep ache in her belly and it wasn’t from sickness. Sansa couldn’t stop those traitorous fantasies coming forward. If she touched him, would he kiss her, make love to her in his bed? Of course he wouldn’t. She needed to stay a virgin for marriage but the idea was oh so wicked.

Somewhere in the depths of a dream, she felt him close the distance, wrapping his body around her. Sansa could feel his lips on the back of her neck, his hot breath making goosebumps. She remembered how she melted into his kiss that night. The taste of him, his tongue touching hers had her on fire. Only this time, he didn’t stop and unlaced her dress.

The thin silk of her chemise stuck to her body and she could feel him against her. His hands grazed along her stomach and up to her breasts. Myranda said she had small bastard’s breasts but they fit in hands perfectly. That hot mouth suckled along the expanse of her neck and Sansa had never felt anything like it. Her body burned and ached but not from pain. She didn’t know what she wanted.

A hand smoothed down the outer side of her thigh and her instinct was to open them. She envisioned a man thrusting between them. Myranda loved it, so it must feel good Sansa hoped. That is if it was a man she wanted. The man she wanted was lying on the other side of the bed.

Was she dreaming? It was a terribly naughty fantasy but still a dream. In a dream, she wouldn’t have to object when a hand cupped her sex. The mouth groaned against her skin and the body held her tighter. Fingers massaged her most private area and a soft moan escaped. Myranda said Marillion did wonderful things with his fingers. Is this what she meant?

Her hips chased a sensation the hand was giving. Her body pulsed with need, to pull an unseen presence down upon her. A coil was tightening and made her voice rasp with heavy breath. Something was happening to her, it was frightening and exciting. Her body was begging for a release but didn’t know what to do. Muscles tensed and a pleasure spiked deeply between her thighs that Sansa wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. It was only a dream.

Dawn’s soft light filtered into the room. It was very cold and Sansa shivered. The fire must have died long ago. She snuggled deeper into the warmth and her eyes shot open. The _warmth_ was breathing steadily beneath her. It was a chest her head lay upon and his breath lightly blowing her hair. Sansa couldn’t push herself up because her arm was draped over his torso. He would know if she moved because his arm was wrapped around her tiny waist...

Sansa could feel the way her leg was entwined with his. At some point in the night, she had snuggled into him and he let her. This was most inappropriate and distressing. If she bolted up now, would he be offended or disgusted that she lay with him like a lover? Sansa rolled back a breath away and his arm tightened.

When he awoke, no matter what she did, there would be a terrible awkwardness. Sansa was appalled she let this happen but had no one to blame but herself.

_What did you think would happen? You’re lucky he didn’t fuck you last night._

Sansa looked down. He didn’t. They were both dressed. He was still on his side of the bed which meant she was the one that moved to him in the night. Yet he was holding her to him. Did he know?

A dream of touching and kissing flooded her mind and Sansa blushed. Did she make noises or was it just a blissful dream he would never know about?

“You are better than any tonic, sweetling.” His voice was full of sleep and groggy. “I haven’t slept this well in ages.”

Should she back away? His arm was still around her and had no intention of moving. He liked she was there but Sansa’s nerves got the better of her.

“I’m sorry.” She pulled away far enough to see his face. Those eyes were bright green and smiled. Had they slept this way all night?

“If you apologize again, I may have to break my fast with a kiss instead,” he grinned and Sansa’s heart pounded. If he kissed her now, she would fall apart. After that dream, she would let him take her here and now.

Suddenly his eyes darkened, and something changed in the air. The arm left her waist and a hand was pulling her head down. Her eyes closed as lips met and just as Sansa feared, she gave in completely. She kissed him back and had no cares any longer. Arms wrapped around and rolled her onto her back. She sunk into the bed with his weight upon her. Her leg was still entwined with his which let him settle deep between her thighs.

This was why he was worried and felt the need to teach her about passion. Was this a lesson too? Sansa didn’t care at all as she let him kiss her. She knew she wanted him in the way a bride was meant to want her husband. She wanted him to be the man in her dream last night.

A loud knocking had Petyr leaning into her neck with an irritated grunt. It must be the morning maid. Would this have progressed any further without interruptions? Sansa would never know because Petyr pushed himself up on his forearms and looked at her with lust. He wanted her, she knew that. His eyes told her so at this moment. Petyr was normally so good at keeping his emotions hidden.

He sighed deeply and gave her nose a light kiss and quickly moved off the bed and straightened the bedclothes so it didn’t look like what just happened between a man and a woman. She was supposed to his daughter, not his lover.

"Upon reflection, I think you should sleep in your bed tonight, sweetling," he smiled thinly. He left and she could his door being unbolted from the solar.

Gods, what just happened between them? Sansa was flushed and dipped lower under the furs. She was afraid the servants would see right through her. A tiny blonde with her hair braided in loops around her head came in with a big smile.

“His lordship said you’re still unwell, m’lady,” the girl picked up the tray from last night and looked around the room for chores needing attending to. “You poor thing, you must feel terrible. Your skin is flushed and hot. Would you like a cool bath this morning?”

Sansa couldn’t speak and nodded. She would need to bathe again. Her chemise was sticking to her skin and the furs were too warm. She slid to the side of the bed and her hand met something wet. Horrified, Sansa pulled the covers back thinking her moon cycle had come early. There was no sight of blood but she felt far from relieved. The wetness had come from her. Sansa’s chemise was soaked through where her thighs met.

Sansa naïvely didn’t understand Marillion’s words on Petyr’s wedding night until now.

_Are you wet for me?_


End file.
